Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (9 page)

Only the plow-shaped handle displayed any color, though undoubtedly it was not the original factory finish. According to numerous stories, the handle’s red hue was painted with the blood of the Hanged Man’s victims. The marshal thought the crimson grip was more likely the result of a few coats of cherrywood stain. Dried blood would have produced a much darker, almost brown tone.

In addition to the color, there were other modifications not mentioned in any of the legends. Some changes were practical, such as the small latch attached to the underside of the barrel’s muzzle to hold the loading lever in place. Others, like the strange symbols etched into the cylinder, served no obvious purpose, at least none the marshal could see.

“This ain’t no Colt,” he whispered, hoping the sound of his own voice would dispel the unease in his chest. “Not anymore.”

The Walker itself was a rarity. Samuel Colt had made only a few thousand, before moving on to more successful designs. The hidden compartment in the rose box had originally been built to hold the marshal’s Colt Navy, a smaller but much more practical weapon than the Walker. The marshal had used the gun for nearly twenty years, even after the cartridge revolution made cap-and-ball revolvers relics of the past. As far as the marshal was concerned, modern six-shooters, with their swing-out cylinders, speed loaders, and double-action triggers, were the chief reason why unnecessary gunplay had become so prevalent in the West. Any idiot could shoot a so-called Peacemaker, but it took a professional to properly prime, load, and fire a percussion revolver.

Despite a few newspaper reports that suggested otherwise, the marshal had only once needed to reload his weapon immediately after emptying all six chambers. That was during the altercation in Astoria, and even then he’d been supported by three dozen men. He’d had plenty of time to reload.

There had already been so much shooting that day. By the time the marshal found himself on the hill, alone (was he?) it was after midnight. He would bury the dead man—

“He wasn’t dead,” said the marshal. “Not yet. Not until…”

He shot the bastard with his gun—
this
gun. That was how the weapon ended up in the marshal’s hand, how it came to be in his possession. He needed it to finish the job. There wouldn’t be time to reload, and this weapon—

“Never needs reloading.”

The marshal blinked and was shocked to find the Hanged Man’s pistol sitting comfortably in his right hand. When had he taken it from the left? Why was his finger on the trigger? The gun felt heavy, but without the cloth barrier between the weapon and his skin, it somehow felt better, right.

“Safe.”

That was why he’d kept the gun eleven years ago. It was the right thing to do—
the safe thing.
It would have been too dangerous to leave such a weapon out in the open, so he had taken it, and replaced it with his own.

Why had he buried his own gun?

Before the marshal could come up with a suitable answer, he noticed that the empty cloth in his left hand wasn’t actually empty. A tiny, conical object lay in the middle of the wrap—a bullet. That made sense; there’d been only one round left in the gun after he’d fired it eleven years ago. One round was all it took.

The marshal examined the bullet more closely. There were flecks of orange crystal in the lead, most likely the result of mixing black powder with firestone, a tactic some shootists claimed produced a bigger bang. It was the marshal’s experience that mixing orange and black usually resulted in a ruptured cylinder and the loss of several fingers.

Despite the scorching on the body of the gun, there was no evidence the Hanged Man’s revolver had ever disobeyed its master.

The marshal dropped the bullet into the small compartment with the lead already in it, and then laid the cloth in the larger space. He considered setting the pistol back in the box, then decided to hold on to the Hanged Man’s weapon awhile longer.

“Mine, now.”

*   *   *

Kate’s hand froze an inch from the bedroom door. Had she just heard a voice? She allowed herself a moment of worry before deciding that talking to himself probably wasn’t the worst thing her father could be doing. She knocked.

“Breakfast is on.”

Kate heard a few muffled noises followed by the sound of something solid hitting the floor.

“Dad!”

Kate opened the door to see the marshal on his knees in front of his bed, holding a wooden box.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine.”

Kate went to her father to help him up. She reached for his hand but got only an elbow. The marshal kept both hands on the box.

“I just dropped this. Clumsy is all.”

Kate looked at the box. She recognized it immediately.

“I didn’t know you still had that.”

Kate ran a hand across the surface of the box, suddenly recalling a time when she was eight years old and wanted nothing more than to play in her mother’s room.

“I was going to surprise you,” the marshal said.

Kate let her hand linger a little too long near the lip of the box. She was about to open it when the marshal took a step back.

“I thought I’d give it a new coat of paint.”

“Oh. All right.”

Kate considered asking why the marshal wanted to keep the contents of the box to himself, but bit her tongue. She’d promised not to pry any more than was necessary, and since Joseph had already gotten much more out of him than they’d expected, this was not necessary. When her father was ready to share more, he would. If he needed to keep some secrets, that was fine with Kate. For now.

Kate walked to the window and pushed the curtains open. Downtown Portland spread out below the house, its waterlogged streets gleaming in the early-morning sun.

“How do you like the view?”

“Too many buildings.”

“Well, it looks like another beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky.”

“Your mayor will be disappointed.”

Kate laughed. “Yes, I suppose he will.”

“Odd bird, is he?”

“He’s a politician.”

Satisfied that the box was buried deep enough in the closet, the marshal turned back to his daughter.

“I’ve known my fair share of politicians. They weren’t all cheats and liars—most were, of course—but not all of ’em.”

“Jim Gates isn’t a bad man.”

“Doesn’t have to be. Might be the guy standing next to him is dirty, or the fella behind him. Don’t usually have to dig too far to find someone wants that kind of power for the wrong reasons.”

Joseph had mentioned the marshal’s interest in their investigations, but until now her father hadn’t broached the subject with Kate. She’d spent so much time worrying about what kind of a burden he was going to be, it had never occurred to her that her father might be an asset when it came to the family business.

“If you want to know more about the investigation, just ask.”

“I’m not lookin’ to stick my nose in where it’s not welcome. I’m just saying be careful, is all.”

“I’m not stepping in front of the trolley, Dad. It’s only an investigation. And it’s done, or nearly so. Joseph’s going to finish things up this morning. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“I’m your father. The hell else am I supposed to do?”

“How about eat some breakfast?”

“I could do that.”

*   *   *

Breakfast was buttermilk biscuits, sausage, coffee, and a bowl of blackberries picked from a bush growing outside the kitchen window. The coffee was lukewarm but otherwise it was the best meal the marshal had eaten in months. Having slept through the morning’s offerings the day before, the marshal made a promise to himself never to do that again.

“Blackberries are sure good.”

“They grow like weeds around here,” said Kate. “And these are early this year. You’ll be sick of them in another month.”

“I doubt that.”

The marshal popped another berry into his mouth as Kate cleared his plate from the table. His was the only setting left, as the rest of the family had already eaten and gone about readying themselves for the day.

Kate finished rinsing the plate in the sink and put it on the drying rack on the counter. In addition to running water, the kitchen had a gas stove and an electric icebox, one of the first of its kind in Portland. Joseph found the technology fascinating, but had suggested such a device might not be a worthwhile investment given the temperate climate. Kate was confident that come summer, the first glass of iced lemonade that found its way into her husband’s hand would help him see the light.

Kate offered the last of the berries to the marshal, which he snatched from the bowl with violet-stained fingertips.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “There’ll be more tomorrow.”

The marshal tossed the last berry into his mouth just as Joseph came into the kitchen. He was wearing a loose-fitting brown coat with short lapels and rounded hems over a vest and trousers. All three garments were made of the same dark, checked material, which made for a clean but casual look.

The marshal stared at Joseph.

“Think your tailor forgot to cut the arms off your waistcoat, son.”

Joseph fastened the top button of the coat, leaving the others undone.

“You don’t like the style?”

“Busy, don’t you think?”

Kate grabbed her father’s berry-stained hand before it could feel the hem of Joseph’s coat. She passed him the damp cloth in her hand and then turned to admire Joseph.

“It’s a sack suit,” she said. “And it’s supposed to be more casual. Men living in Portland don’t feel the need to take themselves so seriously, thus they’re allowed to dress more comfortably.”

The marshal nodded. “It does look like a couple of burlap sacks sewn together. How much you pay for wares like that?”

“Thirty-eight dollars,” said Joseph.

The marshal coughed loudly, but Kate shot her father a look before he could say a word.

For Joseph, the silence was proof that the family dynamic was not going to change as much as they had feared.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Joseph walked out the front door of the house his neighbors had affectionately nicknamed the Pumpkin Palace. It was by no means a palace, certainly not when compared to some of the Gothic behemoths in the Portland Heights, but its steeply pitched gabled roof, decorative spindlework, and solitary location atop the southwestern slope gave it an attractive profile. The fact that it was predominantly orange with green and black trim also made it look somewhat like a giant, Victorian pumpkin.

The view from almost any spot on the property was spectacular. A covered porch ran the length of the house on two sides, framing a panorama of the entire Willamette Valley. Joseph’s “view” was just as spectacular due to the countless hours he’d spent absorbing every detail Portland and the surrounding valley had to offer. When he turned to face the city, every building, block, and back alley was at his disposal, stored as part of a mental map that constantly updated as Joseph’s senses collected new information.

Joseph breathed deeply. The air was dry and unseasonably warm. The smell of fetid water drifted on the breeze, threatening to overcome the pleasant combination of barley and hops that greeted him on most mornings, courtesy of City Brewery. If the temperature reached eighty degrees, as Joseph thought it might, downtown would become unbearable for those with an average sense of smell.

Joseph turned back to the house.

“Kick, Maddie, let’s go!”

A moment later, Kick burst through the front door and slid to a stop before his father.

“Are we taking the trolley?”

“I thought we’d rough it today,” Joseph said, motioning to a winding wooden staircase that descended 211 steps from beside their home to Montgomery Street at the bottom of the hill.

A cable railway had recently been built one ridge over in an attempt to attract more home builders to the Portland Heights. At little more than a quarter mile, the line didn’t cover much distance, but the altitude adjustment made it a worthwhile ride for those on their way up the slope.

“Can we ride it later, on the way home?”

“Maybe.”

Kick smiled and sailed down the path toward the staircase.

“Wait up,” Maddie yelled, rushing past her father.

“Thought you might want this,” Kate said, placing a black bowler hat on her husband’s head.

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me there?”

“It’ll be fine, Kate.”

“Another set of eyes might not hurt. No one will even know I’m about, unless there’s trouble.”

“I don’t expect any trouble.”

“And when has that ever made a difference? Remember Oregon City? If I hadn’t been with you, the situation would
not
have turned out fine.”

“This isn’t Oregon City. This is downtown in the middle of the day.”

“Morning,” Kate corrected.

“Even better,” Joseph said. “And this is the mayor’s office, not a gang of road agents. I think I can handle a rogue civil servant, should one decide to show up.”

Kate nodded but said nothing.

“I’ll be fine,” Joseph said, and kissed his wife softly on the forehead. “Trust me.”

Kate stared at Joseph. She knew he could read the emotions on her face without seeing them, so she didn’t bother to vocalize her displeasure.

“I’ll come by later this morning,” she said finally. “To make sure you were right.”

“Bring the marshal,” Joseph said, starting down the porch steps. “I’m sure he’d like to see the store.”

Joseph hurried across the yard. He stopped to wave at the top of the staircase, then took off after the kids, who were already near the bottom.

*   *   *

The marshal watched Joseph descend the staircase from the second-floor window of his bedroom. He didn’t like the look of the stairs, but guessed he would be following in his son-in-law’s footsteps soon enough. Kate had mentioned something about showing him around the city, which the marshal took to mean walking. He suspected there might be some wading involved, as well. He hoped there would be no shopping for new suits.

When Joseph was out of sight, the marshal had an idea to check his wardrobe for suitable attire—something to placate his daughter’s need to play “dress up Dad.” He had brought most of his clothes from Astoria and thought there must be something that would look good to her eyes.